


a perilous dance indeed

by Amymel86



Series: the other half to my soul [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Georgian Period, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Regency Era AU, Slow Burn, austen style au, jon is neds hier-by-law, ned and cat only had the girls, sansa is marianne dashwood and harry is her willoughby, some harry/sansa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25201210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amymel86/pseuds/Amymel86
Summary: Part 1 of 2He should either look away or interrupt this improper little meeting, he knows. For some unfathomable reason, he does neither. The two look far too intimate for Jon’s liking, although he feels he should have come to expect it to be so. A romantic like Sansa – however proper she is – would simply adore overt flirtations and a secret tête-à-tête. Even from where he stands, Jon can see the way in which she has stars set in her eyes like precious cut stones. He only hopes the man for whom they shine is deserving of it.***Cousin Jon is to inherit Winterfell Manor and its estate after the untimely death of his uncle leaves a widow and two daughters. Sansa is expectant of an imminent proposal from her dear beau, Harrold Hardyng and everything will be absolutely, stunningly, utterlyfine.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: the other half to my soul [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1825645
Comments: 31
Kudos: 265





	a perilous dance indeed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vivilove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivilove/gifts).



> hey lovely people! 
> 
> This fic is written for the one and only fantastic fic writer, Vivilove! It was meant to be a birthday gift but due to illness I was unable to complete it on time :(
> 
> This one is the first part of an **already finished fic**. The second part will be posted shortly once I get a chance to give it a reread. It is loosely set in the regency/georgian era but I am by no means a historian. I tried with the tools at my disposal (namely google, listening to Jane Austen audio books and watching Pride & Prejudice (2005) on repeat lol) so, I beg you; go easy on me and don't be _'that person'_ in the comment section.
> 
> A special shoutout to Tanya, who has been cheering me on to finish this! Couldn't have done it without you, my lovely!
> 
> Also - I started to edit this, but then lost the will (hopefully that won't be indicative of how you'll feel reading it *fingers crossed*) so prepare for typos and the such.
> 
> Please take note of the slow burn tag.

Sansa could never have guessed that someone’s sorrow could be as unique and as personal as perhaps the notes of their laugh or the particulars of their face. Mama has taken to her grief as all widows do; with the ache of one who has lost half themselves while the remaining half frets overlymuch for her two daughter’s future. Sansa’s sister, Arya is dealing with the loss of their dear papa in precisely the way that Sansa would have guessed; sulking off into the grounds of their estate, climbing trees and doing anything humanly possible to ruin her fine clothes.

Sansa’s mourning is perhaps not as she had expected it - although, nothing surrounding her father’s passing was expected at all. An unseating from his saddle on a particularly frisky gelding resulted in a nasty blow to the head. It happened on the west side of the large estate of Winterfell some two months past. Sansa has not ventured that way on their home since, and neither does she intend to.

For sure, she does wet her pillow with tears for her papa, but Sansa manages to catch herself before she wades too deep in grief, feels that sensation of falling precisely when she grips ever so tightly onto something good and hopeful and about life and joy. She thinks of her dear Harry. If she did not have him then she is certain she would be a different creature in her mourning, for he is her lifeboat on this stormy sea and she means to hold to him tightly and not dwell in darkness.

Harrold Hardyng is quite possibly the handsomest fellow in all of Yorkshire – nay, in all of polite society Sansa fancies. And her cap is firmly set before him. She is more than certain that a proposal is imminent and her dear man’s only delay is that in respect of the loss of her father.

Of course, losing one’s father is devastating all upon its own, but losing one’s father when there is no direct male heir to take up the mantle of Lord and possession of the estate brings many more worries to the table – worries that are chiefly fraying her poor mother’s nerves.

Presently, they stand straight-backed in succession upon the pea-gravel outside the grand entrance, awaiting the crunch of hooves and carriage to stop before them. Their visitor today is unlike any other – rather that the presence of this particular visitor renders Lady Stark, Miss Stark and Arya to mere guests in their own home.

Their cousin Jon is come to call.

Jon Targaryen - as closest male relative to Sansa’s late father and heir-at-law - will inherit Winterfell and all her effects due to the entail. Properties are passed from man to man, as this is the way of the world. As it stands, the way of the world has set about to upset Lady Stark’s poor nerves and done a jolly good job of it too, for Sansa has had to hear her incessant agitations over the three of them being cast out with barely a five hundred pounds a piece.

The truth of the matter is, neither the Stark sisters, nor their mother could attest to Jon Targaryen’s plans for the three of them. Is he to turn them out immediately? Allow them to stay until perhaps she and dear Harry are wed and moved comfortably to his own family estate? Or might he let them stay? The first they had heard of his imminent arrival was a letter sent by twopenny post, announcing his likely presence within three days. Curiously, Jon Targaryen had begun his brief and blunt correspondence with ‘as stated in my previous letter-.’ Well, Lady Stark had seen neither hide nor hair of this illusive ‘previous letter’ and so they were left quite in the dark as to the rest of its contents, much to Sansa’s mother’s vexation.

Although her kin, Jon Targaryen remains a stranger to her, but Sansa is sure her cousin will be an amiable sort. Just as she is sure that if he is not, Harry will soon propose and though she will be rather melancholy to leave Winterfell behind, her mother and sister will be cared for by herself and her new husband. Harry is heir presumptive to Eyrie Park after all and although it is a sad business, everyone knows the current heir is in constant ill health and unlikely to make a ripe old age. Everything will be fine, she is sure.

She is sure, she is sure, she is sure.

Father would rue the day that his wife be uprooted from Winterfell, an errant thought niggled at her. Sansa gave a hard pinch to the fleshy part of her palm. She misliked evoking sudden thoughts of her father. If she is caught unprepared for them, then she is likely to cry. Now is neither the time, nor the place for tears. She will save those for her pillow, where they can leave tracks on her cheeks and her eyes all red and puffy and there is no one there to witness it.

“Stand still, Arya,” her mother hisses before giving one final glance down the presented row of staff. The turnout was impressive – uniforms all snow and starch whites and pressed deep blacks. Alys, Sansa’s lady’s maid, had a wisp of her honey gold hair caught upon a breeze. She watches as the girl tucks the loose lock behind her ear before meeting eyes with her mistress. The two of them shared a brief smile and it was back to the business of greeting her cousin.

The carriage rolls to a stop and Jory steps forward to receive the new Lord of Winterfell. A few sparse spots of rain began to fall.

***

It’s an ugly business; to be filling the shoes of a departed family member. Jon had met his uncle only enough times to count on the digits of one hand. It had always been _he_ that travelled down to London to see him, never Jon up northward to Winterfell – his father likes for his children to stay close... or at least close enough that he may be able to direct and meddle with their lives.

What with his mother perishing to bring him to the world, Lord Stark had been the only family member with which he was acquainted that was not of his Targaryen heritage. He had liked the man, could see some of his own traits within him. And now he too has perished and left Jon to take his place. Although he is glad of the opportunity to leave London, Jon is saddened for the reason of it. And, truly, if the estate of Winterfell had not been entailed unto him, he would have gladly bequeathed it to his uncle’s widow.

Alas, that could not be, and still he had purpose – purpose that he believed noble enough to overcome the awkward business of taking Winterfell for his own. He’d set it all out in his initial letter to his aunt – along with his apologies for missing the funeral, Jon explained that he holds himself still to a promise he made to her late husband on his last visit south; that if anything were to befall Lord Stark, Jon would watch over his family. He meant to take up the mantle of Lord of Winterfell, but in essence, change very little, least of all the Stark’s level of living. He would help see to it that his widowed aunt and cousins are looked after. Just as he had promised his uncle.

The journey north had been an arduous one, tinged in grey and dampened heavily. Yorkshire possesses a sky with no likeness back in London, wide and yawning, with hills and dales and crags and moors that rolled on and on with nary anything to blight the horizon. Although the scenery is not to everyone’s taste, Jon could certainly see how one might lose their heart in this country.

By the time his carriage passed the gatehouse of Winterfell, Jon’s legs were sorely in need of a stretch and his tongue the warmth of tea. The pea-gravel drive seemed to gain more length the longer he stared out the window towards the impressive building of Winterfell Manor. He is to manage all this! Gods, he hopes he can do his uncle justice – not to mention trying his hardest to ensure the happiness of his relations – relations he is about to meet for the very first time.

A dark-haired manservant of years middling somewhere between forty and fifty greeted him as he alighted his wretched carriage. “Lord Targaryen,” he said, bowing. The title fell oddly on Jon’s ears. “Welcome to Winterfell.”

“Thank you,” Jon replied. He held his hand out in greeting. “It is good to meet you.”

The man’s serving mask slipped ever so briefly to show a mere hint of a twitch to his lips. “Cassel,” he said, shaking Jon’s hand with his one, gloved in pristine white, “Jory Cassel. And may I present you to the lady of the house?”

The line-up had not gone unnoticed by Jon. In truth, he had rather felt like only keeping it to the periphery of his vision – to look it straight on before he’d had a chance to breathe now that he was here at Winterfell seemed like a folly in respect of his nerves. Not only was he about to meet members of his own family for the first time, but there seemed to be a whole band of servants lined up behind them too. It would surely be enough to unnerve most men, would it not?

“Please,” he said with a nod to Jory and finally turning to see his reception.

While only a few paces away, his relations remained in their presented line, dutifully awaiting his approach. A few spots of rain fell from the grey sky to welcome him to his new home. The first to catch his eye was the splash of fire that was his cousin, Miss Sansa Stark’s red hair. Her skin was delicate cream and she gave him a hopeful smile when their eyes met. Next, he was drawn to his aunt, a handsome woman dressed head to toe in mourning. Removing his tophat as Jory made the introductions with her full titles, Jon made sure his bow was as deep as the lady’s smile was brave.

Next, his cousin, Sansa was introduced, a remarkably beautiful girl, clearly taking after her mother but even fairer still. She wore her mourning bombazine blacks well though Jon suspects she flourishes better in more vivid hues or in the softness of pastels. Her curtsey was precise and her demeanour charming.

He was quickly moved on to his younger cousin, Miss Arya. Miss Arya had mud stains on the hem of her skirts and she curtsied with all the grace of a young person being forced to endure the intolerable. Jon smirked to himself.

“It is lovely to finally make your acquaintance,” he said to all three, feeling everyone’s eyes upon him. “I only wish it was under more happy circumstances.”

“Indeed,” Lady Stark started before the rain began to redouble its efforts and was soon pelting the earth. “Heavens!” she gasped. “Come, let us retreat to the warm and dry.”

Once inside the grand entrance hall, Jon took stock of the opulent rich wood furnishings, damask drapes in sage and hunting greens and velvets of deepest burgundy reds. Hung upon the walls were portraits of ancestors on his mother’s side – a side of his family that he had long wished to know more of. Servants fluttered here and there, making sure their ladies were as dry as quickly and comfortably manageable. A maid was hastily wiping any evidence of rain from the polished parquet flooring and a footman had offered to take his greatcoat. Jon lamented that most of the serving staff that had been awaiting him outside had since dispersed. He had liked to have been introduced. But perhaps this is for the best; too many names to learn all at once may have been too high a task to set himself. He made a note to venture downstairs to introduce himself to anyone he might find tomorrow. A great house is nothing without its staff, and Jon means to let them know he intends to be a fair and generous employer.

He was just about done with his awe-tinged appraisal of the entrance hall when his youngest cousin decides now is the time to pipe up.

“Are you throwing us out, then?” 

“Arya!” Lady Stark and Miss Stark cry in parallel.

Jon splutters. “Throw you out?”

The elder Stark girl and her mother glare at young Arya but she continues regardless. “Mother says you are either to let us stay until we are resettled or throw us out and take Winterfell for yourself immediately.”

Jon was astounded, confused and embarrassed. He turned his attention back towards his aunt. “Lady Stark, if I have ever given you such impressions I must apologise... but, pray tell, did you not read my letter?”

“I would have,” she said, straightening her jet black skirts, “if such a letter had made it to me.”

Ah, well that explains it. “It did not reach you?”

“No.”

“Then, please allow me to retell you of the promises I made to your late husband.”

His aunt still seemed wary of him, yet she gave a nod and called upon a footman to bring some tea to the drawing room. Jon watched her reach for her youngest and drag her along towards their destined room, ducking her head to subtly issue a reprimand of some sort for her outspoken burst. Jon cannot say he is regretful for his cousin’s query - better to set his relation’s worries to rest all the sooner. He realised he was left in the hall with his elder cousin. She was watching him closely, no doubt curious of him. He attempted to hold a flush at bay over her appraisal of him. “Lead the way, Miss Stark,” he said, offering his arm. She bobbed up and down and took his offered arm before they fell in step behind her mother and sister.

***

Jon Targaryen seems to be a man of very few words and even fewer expressions. Sansa could not quite read him as she might like to and something of him reminds her very much of her dear papa. She hoped the likeness did not stop with his solemn face and serious nature. He did, however, extend his economy of words to putting her mother’s worries to rest. He was not to cast them out. In fact, he seemed quite concerned for their welfare and keeping his promises to her late father.

“And should you marry?” her mother asked, still not quite ready to quit her fretting just yet.

Cousin Jon finished his sip of tea, returning the china cup to its saucer with a pleasing clink. “What of it?” he asked.

“Surely your bride should not wish to share her home with us.” It was a fair point. They all turned to Jon to hear his answer.

“Then I shall endeavour to never marry,” he replied with a shadow of a grin.

Sansa found herself unable to hold her tongue. “Never marry?!” she exclaimed. “But you must!”

Her cousin offered her a surprised look that turned to amusement - a look that she chose to ignore. “Must I, Miss Stark?”

“Of course! Why would you deny yourself the love – the happiness? Do you not wish for children?”

His amusement only grew.

“Ignore Sansa,” Arya interjected, “she thinks everyone is destined for their own sweeping romance like in one of her silly novels.”

“Arya!”

“Well, you do. You can’t deny it,” her sister said in that derisive tone she is overly fond of using in her attempts to bait Sansa into an argument.

“Arya,” Sansa twisted in her seat on the chaise to better face her sister. “One day, you too shall meet someone with whom you will wish to gift your heart in its entirety, someone whose soul perfectly matches with your own - it will be as if they had always been two halves of one singular whole.” Her sister merely rolled her eyes. “You shall,” Sansa said with certainty. “You may disbelieve it all you wish but I know it to be true. Everyone is deserving of it.”

She glanced to her mother and then cousin Jon, for surely one of them may support her views. She cannot be the only one to believe in love. What she found was mama wearing her soft smile and Jon making a study of her as though she may be a riddle of some sort. They held each other in sight for a moment longer than what felt proper. Sansa coloured slightly and looked away, none the wiser as to whether her cousin now thought of her romantic sensibilities as admirable or foolish.

She could feel his gaze on her even while her mother spoke. “In all seriousness, Jon, do you have no intentions to marry?”

He tore his eyes away from her to answer. “I have very little intentions of the sort, I assure you, Lady Stark. Although, my father is longed to see the last of his children wed and no doubt has plans for me. Much of it is out of my hands.”

“He is orchestrating a match for you?”

Nodding his head, Jon glanced downward briefly. “Presently, my father is keen for a firmer connection with the Tyrells of Highgarden Park I believe.”

Sansa blinked. The Tyrells were said to be rather plump in the pocket but relatively new to society, and with the Targaryens being an old aristocratic name, a match between them would be mutually beneficial in material and standing but felt completely lacking in anything of the heart. Oh, poor cousin Jon.

“Of course, this seems nothing compared to the kinds of heady romance Miss Stark speaks so eloquently of.” He must have read the pity for him clear about her expression.

“Perhaps she will be your soul’s other half,” Sansa offered, trying to remain positive. “This match may be fated for you both.”

“Perhaps.” 

He was watching her again, offering her a small, soft smile than made her tummy feel queer.

***

Jon was exceedingly glad to have put Lady Stark’s worries to rest with regard to his plans for Winterfell. Whatever they felt of him being here now, he had wanted to be clear that it was still, and always will be their home.

After tea, his aunt was good enough to give him a tour of the grounds and properties. The day’s events coupled with her still evident grief had taken its toll on her however, and she soon retired from his company. Jon would not begrudge her her rest in the slightest.

Lady Stark had left him in the care of one Mr Poole, the man who would become Jon’s valet. Mr Poole led him to a spacious room with a large rich wood four-post bed. It was not perhaps as sumptuously decorated as a lady’s room might be but it was grand. Poole was busy with one of Jon’s trunks while Jon himself wandered the room taking in fine carved furniture when he realised that there were spaces on the walls where paintings once hung. “Are the hangings being cleaned or have they been moved?” Jon asked absentmindedly. If there is to be space, he may like to commission a landscape or two of the moors and the manor house. He wonders if the Starks might like that.

“Moved, my lord,” Poole answers. “Master Eddard had the portraits commissioned of Lady Stark and his girls. I believe the lady of the house now has them in her drawing room.”

Dawning realisation smacked him square in the face. “This is my uncle’s room?” Jon asked, turning to face his man.

“Yes, my lord.”

Oh, this would not do. To take his late uncle’s room felt akin to a sacrilegious offence.

“Poole,” he said, “would you be so good as to alert the footmen that my things will need to be brought to one of the guest rooms.”

***

After the debacle with the rooms had been straightened out, Jon asked Poole to escort him below stairs so that he might introduce himself to the staff. He tried desperately to retain the names given to him but he was met with all manner of upper housemaid, scullery maid, laundress, cook and hall-boy that his head began to spin. Soon after, Jon was outside meeting coachmen, grooms, a gamekeeper, kennelmaster and the groundsmen too. They all seemed as wary of him as Lady Stark and his cousins had been earlier in the day.

After the introductions, Poole had left him to his own devices and he indulged in a stroll on the grounds. Winterfell boasted all the usual traits for houses of its ilk; kitchen gardens, sprawling lawns, groves of trees along the outer boarders, manicured leisure gardens, stables, a glasshouse and hunting woodlands to the rear. The remainder of Winterfell’s lands were tenanted and Jon could see some livestock grazing far off in the distance.

About to round a corner of the manor building itself, Jon paused, hearing the bark of what sounded like a pack of wild dogs accompanying the high laughter of a girl. The hounds spilled out before him; pointers, about a dozen or so, eagerly sniffing or yapping as they bounded along with the leader of their pack that appeared to be none other than the younger of his two cousins. Arya’s laughter died in her throat and she came to a crunching halt upon the pea gravel before him.

Her face paled. “Please don’t tell mama or Sansa that I’ve been playing with the dogs,” she begged. “Farlen will get in trouble for letting me.”

“I won’t tell,” Jon said with a smile, crouching down on his haunches to give an inquisitive liver-coloured bitch some attention. Arya chose not to speak, instead opting to stand and watch as more and more dogs came to give Jon a sniffing over. “I have put yours and your mother’s worries to rest about myself, I hope?” he said when the need for further conversation was pressing. He stood, the dogs losing interest in him almost instantly.

“Yes,” she replied. “I am glad you are not throwing us out. Although mother says her jointure would’ve seen us fine and Sansa won’t shut up about bringing Harry up to scratch so-“

Jon’s interest was piqued. He should have known to suspect that a diamond of the first water such as Sansa would likely have caught the attention of a few gentlemen. “Harry?” he enquired, already finding himself harshly critical of the stranger.

Arya groaned in a rather un-lady-like manner, her hands twiddling with the buttons on her spencer jacket. It amused him greatly. “Yes,” she said with an inelegant shrug, “Harrold Hardyng, heir presumptive to Eyrie Park. Mama suspects an agreement between he and Sansa is on the horizon and Sansa is certain it will happen any day now.”

“Is that so?”

His cousin nods and crouches down to pet one of her hounds. “You saw what she’s like. Her head’s in the clouds and she thinks she’s in for a grand romance with Harry as her charming prince.”

Concern grew from this new seed of information, germinating in the pit of his gut. He’d sworn to see to his aunt and cousin’s happiness, surely this extended to ensure that whomever she wed was deserving of the title of being her husband. And with Sansa such a ringer for romanticisms, if she chose unwisely the heartbreak would likely pain her more keenly than the average chit. “And is he?” Jon asked, squinting now that the earlier rain had cleared and the sun was attempting to find a way of peeking around the clouds. “Charming, I mean? What do you think of him?”

Arya shrugged once more. “He is fine I suppose,” she said before brightening. “He lets me squeeze in and drive his curricle when we visit! We go wheeling down the lane like hellfire!” This did not dampen Jon’s concerns and told him very little of the man’s character. “Sansa squealed like sow but secretly I know she enjoyed the opportunity to grasp onto Harry like a damsel in distress.”

Jon nods his head, the scene unfolding in his mind.

“He is handsome, I suppose.”

That did not help one whit. “Does your mother approve of him for her?”

Arya, obviously growing tired of the topic of discussion, began gee-ing up her pack of hounds and walking off. “I think so,” she threw over her shoulder with a smile and yet another shrug before bounding off with her animals.

Jon was left to watch after her. The sky began to darken yet again as the sun failed to break free of the clouds.

***

Sansa thought that to describe her cousin as ‘dull’ may be too harsh a descriptor to use, but his penchant towards reservedness and apparent reluctance to express anything extending beyond daily pleasantries made it difficult for her to see past the word. She even tried to coax some feeling from him by requesting he recite some of her favoured sonnets after supper. Alas, Jon’s recital lacked emotion sufficient enough to move her and Sansa found herself correcting his emphasis and projection.

It was perhaps his second or third sennight at Winterfell when Jon happened upon her as she was in the process of searching out a servant to take her letter to be sent via twopenny post to dear Harry. Seeing him catch sight of the note brought a flush to her face for an inexplicable reason, for he was not privy to its contents or its recipient. “I’m telling Harry of your arrival,” she found herself blurting. Jon gave her a studying look as he is want to do. Sansa could feel her whole face colouring. Why had she told him that?

“A happy report, I hope?” Cousin Jon asks, brows raising and eyes flicking down to the love note in her hand.

“Of course!” He may be a dull addition to their family but she is in no doubt as to his kindness.

Her cousin gifted her with one of his little smiles she has come to notice. “I’m glad to hear of it,” he teased. “You may want to amend your note to Harrold Hardyng to include an invitation.”

Her heart pitter-pattered in her chest. “An invitation?”

“Yes, I should like to meet the fellow and the surest way would be to extend an invitation to stay, would it not, cousin?”

Sansa gasped gaily. “Oh, yes! Yes, it would!” Before propriety could stop her, she found herself pressing an excited peck to her cousin’s cheek. “Thank you, Jon! I will amend my letter post-haste!” she called from over her shoulder, already dashing her way back to her writing desk.

***

His cousin’s excitement had been a happy by-product of Jon’s machinations. In truth, he merely wished to give himself the opportunity to judge this ‘Harry’ for himself. He told himself he was doing right by his duties to his cousin by doing so, and better still by writing to his contacts back in London to see if there are any reports of the man – be them good or bad.

As the days passed, Miss Stark’s enthusiasms for their guest’s arrival only grew and grew until even her mother relented to telling her to calm herself.

It was rather sweet, Jon thought. He could not imagine anyone expressing such excitements over him. The more he listened and watched her, the more he understood that she truly believes in love – and, in particular, her love for Harry and his for her in turn.

He hoped she was proved correct. To see his cousin suffering a broken heart might very well tear him asunder. She seems to feel everything so very keenly and make no qualms at all in letting it be known. If she hadn’t a beau in mind and had fixed upon visiting town for the season and coming out, she may well have had to learn to mask her excitements more when in public. Jon thinks if that had been the case, it would’ve been a great shame indeed, for he finds her as equally delightful as he does perplexing.

So far, days spent at Winterfell are much the same; Jon is keen on learning the craft of lordship as well as any knowledge he can gain of the house, the land and its people. He suspects the servants have come to breathe a sigh of relieve that he did not wish to make any employment changes or restructures. He hopes one day to earn their trust entirely.

When he is not learning from Lady Stark, Jory, Poole or any other number of helpful persons, Jon finds his days filled with traipsing after young Arya. She seems quite intent on showing him every single square footage of the property and muddying her skirts as she goes. He finds her most endearing and can plainly see why the whole of the estate do not mind her being underfoot.

His evenings have been reserved for admiring his elder cousin. It happens quite by accident but it’s a habit he has fallen into. She is normally the most lively over supper, and the first to seat herself at the pianoforte in the parlour, she adores sharing her favoured sonnets with him and even requests that he recite a few for her – complete with a correction of his performance, but he finds he does not mind it at all.

His cousin grows more and more impatient as their guest’s arrival nears. So much so, that Jon himself finds he is curious to see this specimen of a man that she apparently is so ready to give her gentle heart to.

Harrold Hardyng is to be a guest at Winterfell for a sennights stay and almost as soon as the man’s top-boots crunched over the gravel from his carriage, Jon thought it a sennight too long.

The man was as sufferinlgy handsome as his fair cousin was uncommonly beautiful. They looked as though they fit flawlessly; a picture puzzle finally put together. Jon watched him bow before Miss Stark, wearing a smirk upon his face that perfectly matched the dazzle in her eyes as she curtsied.

Maybe he _was_ the other half to her soul? Then why was he unable to shift the unease in his gut since the blasted man arrived? Jon should be happy, should he not?

Indeed, the man proved to be amiable in character and proficient in both charm and wit during conversations. He did not even show himself to be so utterly absorbed with his own self, as many a young gentleman can be. Jon really fought to suppress that unfathomable instinct within that told him that Harrold Hardyng is to be misliked. He will give the man a fair go of it – _he will_.

He finds himself mulling over this Hardyng predicament as he is making his way to meet with Miss Arya, whom he had promised a game of billiards (out of sight of her mother, of course), when the sweet end-note of a girlish giggle grabs for his attention. His boots pull up short upon the hallway floor as he blinks and cocks his head as though it t’would aid him in catching more of the sound.

And there it is again; the unmistakable tones of a flirtation.

One step, and then two, his footfall soft, his breathing cautious, Jon advances slowly towards the sound. The laughter is joined by the low murmuring of a gentleman. Jon’s gut twists.

Approaching a room he is yet to be shown in any official capacity, he assumes it is one of the many unused guest chambers. One delicate peek through the door left ajar proves his suspicions correct. The bed is stripped of linens and cream coloured dust cloths are draped upon all the items of furniture to ease the upper housemaid’s burden of dusting. But there, stood quite alone and unchaperoned, he finds Miss Stark and her Mr Hardyng.

He should either look away or interrupt this improper little meeting, he knows. For some unfathomable reason, he does neither. The two look far to intimate for Jon’s liking, although he feels he should have come to expect it to be so. A romantic like Sansa – however proper she is – would simply adore overt flirtations and a secret tête-à-tête. Even from where he stands, Jon can see the way in which she has stars set in her eyes like precious cut stones. He only hopes the man for whom they shine is deserving of it.

Hardyng moves in, dangerously close as he toys with the ends of her hair. “Before I leave,” he murmurs, low and intimate, “I should like a lock of this fine copper silk to cherish and take with me, Miss Stark.” Jon watches the utter scoundrel – a title perhaps too harsh in realty though Jon finds it rather fitting at present – duck to lay a kiss to the perfect flame-licked curl he holds in his fingers. His cousin’s breath hitches. The rain outside beats upon the window panes and Sansa wets her rosy lips.

It is too much.

“Mr Hardyng, Cousin,” Jon says, bowing to each of them and stepping into the room with his hands behind his back. The lovers spring apart and Miss Stark colours beautifully as her star-filled eyes now firmly find the floor. “There is news from Wintertown.”

Sansa throws him a guilty look. Hardyng, however, remains the very picture of calm. The ease at which he is able to play as though he had not just now been overstepping did not sit right with Jon.

“There is to be dancing at the assembly rooms two days hence.” The news had come this morning and Jon had planned on brightening his cousin’s day with the information over luncheon.

“ _Dancing?!”_ she gasped, all embarrassment lost when faced with the prospect of music and merriment.

Jon smiled. “Yes. I thought you’d be pleased.”

“You simply must dance the longways with me, Harry,” she exclaimed almost breathlessly.

Hardyng bows his head, that almost ever-present smirk upon his face. “I assure you, nothing would please me more, Miss Stark.”

She turns to Jon next. “And you too, cousin. You must go a reel with me!”

The grimace was difficult to mask. “I’m afraid you’ll find I am not a terribly skilled dancing partner.”

His cousin steps forward and reaches out with both delicate hands to take his in a gesture most affectionate. “Then I shall help you practice,” she proclaims sweetly. “You’ll be positively light of foot after I am done with you.” Her beaming smile was so radiant he’d almost forgotten Hardyng was even there. Miss Sansa’s hands squeezes his and Jon is unable to stop the brief sweep of his thumb across her knuckles.

“Mr Targaryen is lucky indeed to have such a helpful cousin at his disposal,” Hardyng piped up, seemingly breaking some sort of spell over Miss Sansa who pulled her touch from Jon’s in an instant. Her face flushed as she glanced at he and Hardyng both.

“I must be off to find mama,” she said, excusing herself with a curtsey and hurrying from the room.

Finding himself alone in the room with Hardyng, Jon found the man’s smirk more and more irksome. “Do enjoy your dancing lessons,” he said, bowing and making to leave.

Jon obstructed his exit. “I trust you have Miss Stark’s best interests in mind when you seclude her away like this?”

Hardyng’s brow quirked yet his smile did not falter. “Of course, my good man.” He pat Jon’s shoulder in a rather patronising fashion and left.

Jon attempted to tell himself he was only being overly cautious – but no, there was definitely something mistrustful about the man.

***

Sansa giggled as Jon fumbled a step, the noise echoed in the empty ballroom here at Winterfell and, in the absence of music seemed awfully loud as they practiced their steps.

“I did warn you,” he said, that odd little half-smile upon his lips.

“You are not half as left-footed as you claim, sir,” Sansa teased. “Your footwork through the first set could stand to be rehearsed, but I dare say you’ll get there.”

Jon’s brows rose on his head as Sansa simply grinned in return. “As my dancing master, I must insist you shoulder part of the blame for my bungled Northern Reel.”

Sansa shook her head with yet another laugh. “Not likely. The fault is all your own.”

Jon chuckled and took a bow which only amused Sansa further. She had not seen this playful side of him before. “Are the steps not familiar to you from London? What would be danced by the fashionable ton?” A thought came that excited Sansa greatly. “Do they dance _the Waltz?!”_ She’d heard of the new dance from the continent that was performed like no other. Jon coloured a little and gave a nod. Sansa gasped happily. “Is it really done by couples... _embracing_ as they dance _?!”_ Such a thing would still be considered scandalous here in the country, for they are not in the least bit continental or fashionable. “Have _you_ danced the Waltz before?”

“Aye, I have. Once or twice.”

Her excitement was bubbling like the frothing of a fountain. “Show me!” she said, grasping for his hands merrily. “Please, show me how to do it, Jon!”

His face coloured deeper and his fingers twitched within her hold. “I’m not sure your mother would approve-“

“Mama would not know.”

Her cousin’s brow rose once more. “And here I was, under the impression that you were a good, respectable girl, Miss Stark.”

“I have my moments of wickedness.”

Why had she said that in such a manner? She could feel her face growing hot and felt the need to look away from Jon’s studying gaze – and yet she found she could not.

After a time, he blinked and cleared his throat. “Very well,” said he, face unreadable as he gave her hands the barest of squeezes, “I will show you.”

Jon’s warm hands slid gently up the underside of her forearms to hold her at the elbows and he urged that she do the same. “But I thought the gentleman held the lady about the waist?” she asked, confused.

He dropped their embrace. “In less genteel society, perhaps.”

“Show me.”

“ _Sansa_ ,” he chided, although she found it highly amusing. Tilting her head and pouting, Sansa was on the verge of begging him. If Jon could show her how to Waltz properly, she may well be able to impress Harry with how worldly she might seem. “Fine,” Jon sighes and Sansa found she had no need to beg.

One of his large hands gently held her waist. The intimacy of it had her sucking in a breath. His eyes met with hers at the sound and-... when had they drifted so incredibly close? Sansa feels as though she might practically feel the warmth from his body from where she stands. He holds her gaze and arranges their other hands, one of her now upon his shoulder and the other cradled in his own.

He speaks low and quietly – so quietly she hardly hears his instruction before he’s moving her, turning them slowly in a circle. She’s looking at their feet when he says “Good,” – the encouragement so right beside her ear that Sansa swears she feels his breath on her neck. “Try not to watch our shoes too intently though, Miss Stark.”

Blinking up at him as he continues to guide her in slow circles, Sansa’s heart begins to flutter wildly. She can see why the dance is followed by controversy. She can also see the little violet flecks in Jon’s eyes like chips of precious stone.

There’s a familiar feeling building in her tummy, like glowing embers spark within. She knows that feeling – it is the same as when she’s with Harry. But that cannot be – surely it cannot. Sansa’s _in love_ with dear Harry. She must be mistaken – the dance, the Waltz, Jon’s proximity – it is all a devilish trick.

“Good, Sansa,” he murmurs in that tone that sounds sweet and slow and rich like honey. His fingers burn at her waist and his eyes – why had she never realised just how pretty they were? Sansa feels as though she might like to slowly be guided around the floor by Jon indefinitely –

“Well, well,” a voice breaks the spell, “has the student become the dancing master?”

_Harry._

Sansa sprang from Jon’s embrace, face feeling flushed and chest breathless. “Jon was teaching me the Waltz.”

Harry looked surprised, though his smile stayed intact. “The Waltz? How very... _progressive_ of you.” She felt Jon stiffen beside her. “Not leading our dear, innocent Miss Stark astray I hope, Mr Targaryen.”

“Of course not, I-“

“I asked Jon to show me,” Sansa interrupted Jon’s affronted reply. “So that we might dance a Waltz someday, you and I.”

“That would certainly be something to look forward to,” Harry said, though his eyes remained upon Jon and his smile was queer. There was a tense silence before he brought his attention back towards Sansa. “Your man, Hullen was kind enough to horse the Phaeton and I came to see if you wanted a whirl in her?”

 _A ride in the Phaeton with Harry?_ Sansa’s excitement spiked and she very almost began bobbing up and down on her feet. She will get to sit beside him, ever so close and curl her hand around his arm. Harry enjoys showing off by pushing the horses full out – it is quite exhilarating. Sansa was beaming at her dear Harry but he... he was watching Jon, and odd expression on his face.

The most likely reason sprang to Sansa’s mind and she chastised herself for not thinking on it sooner. She turned to Jon. “You don’t mind sparing me, do you, Jon?” she asked, guessing at the cause for Harry’s concern. “We are finished with our dancing lesson, are we not?”

Jon too, was giving Harry a queer look in return. Sansa could not fathom the true meaning of it. He looked just a shade angrier than his usual unreadable facade. Turning to her, his look softened and he bowed his head to dismiss her from him so she might join her Harry.

“Your cousin,” Harry mused as he was taking up the reigns in the Phaeton.

Sansa turned her head to see the very man he was talking of standing under the stone arched door to see them off before they set off. She flashed him a smile, happy to be with her Harry – a place for her that made much more sense than under the spell of the Waltz in her cousin’s arms. “What of him?” she asked.

“Careful, there my sweet Miss Stark,” he said, urging the horses on. _What in heavens could he mean by that?_ Sansa wondered as her hand flew to keep hold of her bonnet. “You’re well on the way to breaking the poor chap’s heart, I should say.”

Sansa wrinkles her brow and Harry taps his whip on both mare’s quarters. “Jon?” she laughed. What an absurd thought. “But he’s so... so... _serious_!”

Harry cocked his head. “Even serious men have hearts, dearlove.”

Of course they do – of course Jon has a heart. She felt wretched for even suggesting the notion was preposterous. Her wretched feeling burned out as soon as it had sparked however – _‘dearlove’_ – when had Harry ever called her _that?_ Oh, she was in danger of swooning straight off her perch!

Shaking her head, Sansa returned to the subject in hand. “It does not matter,” said she, “Jon’s father has offered him up for a match.” _And you and I shall be engaged any day now._ “He is to consider the Tyrell girl.”

“Tyrell? Margaery Tyrell?”

“You know of her?”

They took a turn sharper than was expected and Sansa was pleased to have an excuse to cling to Harry with one hand while the other kept her bonnet secure.

“She is a beauty,” said he. “Jon Targaryen would be a lucky man.”

***

Jon told himself he would not intervene in his cousin’s courtship – not until he had more to substantiate his misgivings about the match. He went on to tell himself these things when witnessing the way Harry would place his hand at the small of her back when guiding her, or lean in a fraction too close to whisper in her ear. He would not intervene – _he would not._

The heavy, uninvited feeling remained at the pit of his stomach like a stone. He could not but help watch Sansa light up around Hardyng, her eyes bright and her smile as enchanting as moonglow. Her dress for this evening of dancing was the most innocent and unspoiled of whites, with a ribbon of robin’s egg blue tied high on her waist. She was without her usual fichu or any sort of bodice tucker and so there was rather much more of her skin exposed. Jon trained his eyes not to stray to her décolletage.

He desired to say the same of their guest.

Wintertown Assembly Rooms were smaller of that that Jon had experienced but the fiddler was more than proficient and the rooms were aglow with conversation, laughter and candlelight alike. Sansa had already claimed a reel with himself and the longways country dance with Harry as promised. Currently she was entertaining some young black haired buck by partnering up for a cotillion. Harry had been slipped away somewhere since his dance with Sansa and Jon, for one did not miss him. “Does your sister always insist on spending the whole evening on the floor?” Jon murmured to Arya beside him as they watched the couples spin and interweave.

An answer came from an uncalled for source. “Cheer up, old chap,” Harry said, reappearing beside them. “You may get another Waltz yet.” Jon did not like the other man’s smile but he chose to ignore the concealed bait.

“Sansa _lives_ to dance,” his younger cousin answered, eyes still fixed upon the dance-floor.

And it did appear so. Her face was bejewelled with a smile most dazzling and eyes that twinkled in their merriment.

“Let’s hope she has enthusiasm reserved for other... _active pursuits_ ,” Harry leant over to say, his brow raised in an overly suggestive manner.

Jon twisted to face the man, that heavy stone in his stomach now burning like a glowing coal. “ _What?”_ he demanded, though his query was ill-timed as Sansa’s cotillion came to an end and she bounded back over to them. Perhaps Harry had designed his remark as such; to rankle Jon but be unable to be held accountable.

“Did you see who had asked for the dance?” Sansa said breathlessly. “T’was Mr Gendry Waters,” she answered when no guesses came.

Miss Arya’s eyes sought out Sansa’s dancing partner. “The man who has taken on Acorn House?”

“The very one,” Sansa grinned.

Acorn House was a smallholding of middling size on the outskirts of Winterfell estate. Though it certainly was not large, it dwarfed all of the property’s other tenanted houses. Jon is reminded that he means to make the rounds to Winterfell’s tenants and introduce himself as new Lord. He remembers being told of this Mr Waters, though; a newly acknowledged illegitimate son of a Lord who had been friend to his late uncle.

“And guess who he is with!” Sansa near bounced on the balls of her feet. Jon and Arya’s curious eyes looked over to the other side of the room where Mr Waters had retreated. “Do not all look at once!” Sansa chastised. She leant in and whispered with conspiratorial excitement. “Mr Waters is hosting a supportive uncle, a Mr Renly Baratheon, who, in turn has invited none other than Mr Loras _Tyrell_ and – “ she glanced behind her at the party in question before turning back and addressing the final name directly at Jon, “- _Miss Tyrell_.”

***

Arya leant her elbows upon the table as she talked – an act most disturbing in its lack of grace that Sansa found herself rather vexed with it. If Harry weren’t here she feels she might yell. Mother is not here of course, as she breaks her fast in her rooms, otherwise the arduous duties of keeping her hoyden of a sister within the parameters of decorum would not fall entirely upon Sansa’s shoulders. She settles for a clearing of her throat. Arya gives her the briefest of attentions, to which Sansa eyes her elbows in a blatant fashion, making her sister roll her eyes and relent their position.

She glances to Jon, who looks as though he’s in the midst of a battle with his mouth over whether he should smirk or not. Sansa makes to decide the outcome of his war for him by issuing a surprise attack. “What did you think of Miss Tyrell, Jon?”

The urge to smile seemed to recede immediately. “A very agreeable girl,” he answered, returning his attention to his breakfast plate and the papers.

And she was agreeable. A couple of years in age older than Sansa and with an air of effortless poise and decorum, Sansa liked Margaery Tyrell greatly upon this first meeting. Her dress had been an emerald green and she’d worn golden roses in her soft brown ringlets. She was a beauty and Sansa cannot see any reason that Jon would refuse the match that his father was keen to set for him.

Sansa had as much to her mother when they had arrived home, hurriedly recounting the evening’s affairs while Alys fussed her into her night-things and mama sat upon her bed listening. Her mother had not seemed so glad to hear that Margaery Tyrell had been beautiful and amiable. She thinks that should Jon marry, he shall listen to the wishes of his wife and forget his promises to his widowed aunt and her two daughters. Sansa wishes she would not fret. Though, she will admit that the thought of Jon marrying did make her experience a little unease – much like the way a boat shifts beneath one’s feet, swaying with the sea and not caring a single whit for your equilibrium.

“Only _agreeable_?” Sansa asked, “did you see the exquisite embroidery on her gown? How well she danced? You really ought to have asked her to dance, Jon.” Sansa was rather jealous of Margaery’s artful style of hair and the amethysts dripping from around her neck. She told herself that she did not mind admitting of her jealousy aloud but instead decided not to voice it.

“Yes,” Harry said, “you should’ve entertained the lady with a Waltz,” he grinned. Sansa’s grip on her knife loosened enough for it to clatter on her plate. Jon’s cutting glare was aimed squarely at Harry.

Fortuitously, Jory entered with the correspondence for the day. The silence was pulled taut around the table as Sansa received her copy of the Repository and eagerly flipped the pages for a distraction. Jon received two letters, he pocketed one immediately and opened the other at table. Seemingly willing to allow tensions drop, he read aloud.

“Loras Tyrell has written,” said he, eyes still scanning the page. “He extends an invitation to us all to attend a charity bazaar in one month’s hence.”

“Harry too?” Sansa asked hopefully.

Jon’s reply was not masking in its begrudging nature. “Yes,” he said simply before removing himself from table and bowing his exit.

After breakfast, Sasna was reminded of the sadness that she had kept at bay; Harry is to return home. At almost every minute of his stay, Sansa hoped their attachment might be solidified with his proposal, and now, stood giving her farewells she still held out hope. Instead, he simply gifted her with one of his dazzling smiles and a tender kiss to the back of her hand. Her skin tingled as she waited watching his carriage roll down Winterfell’s pea-gravel and there she stood, left alone by the others until her dear Harry had dropped completely out of view.

Finding herself aimlessly walking the grounds, Sansa replayed the highs of Harry’s stay, a wistful smile playing at the corners of her lips. Her feet seemed to have had thoughts of their own however as the west of the estate loomed closer. Sansa gasped and twirled around to correct her course, she had no wish to visit that wooded area ever again, she’ll only be flooded with thoughts of dear papa’s last breaths and be left to wonder which rock is was that brought his life to an end.

Striding away, Sansa heads for back indoors, conjuring images of Harry’s smile, Harry’s laughing eyes and the way her heart would leap whenever he looked at her a certain way. _That_ should banish her melancholia, for certain.

Perhaps she should read? To bury one’s head in a book is a sure way to escape one’s thoughts.

With purpose in her gait, Sansa hastened towards the library, only to pause when she heard an elevated voice coming from her mother’s sewing snuggery.

“You cannot possibly allow her to marry him!”

It had been Jon, and in answer came a low murmuring that Sansa knew to be her mother’s.

“He is a blackguard! He will not make Sansa happy.”

Sansa’s heart near stopped. Is Jon speaking of _Harry_? Of her dear, sweet, lovely Harry?! That will just never do.

“ _He_ has already made me insurmountably happy, sir!” She said firmly, bursting into the room without invitation but with a thunderstorm in her heart.

Jon’s eyes widened upon her entry and his mouth was left softly agape. “Sansa,” breathed he, “Hardyng is not the man he pretends to be.” He was begging her to see the impossible.

“He is exactly the man he ought to be! He and I are in love!”

There was pain in her cousin’s eyes. He ran a hand through his raven hair and looked to her mama for guidance.

“What you have told me is scandalous indeed, Jon,” her mother said, “but Harry is heir to Eyrie Park and –“

“Aye, and land, wealth and titles are worthy substitutes for Sansa’s happiness?!” Jon interrupted, voice raised and coated in ire and accusation.

Confused, Sansa had rapidly met her whit’s end. “Jon!” said she, “What on earth are you talking about?!”

He wet his lips. “Upon hearing of your attachment, I wanted to know more of the man beyond your glowing praise.” her cousin took a breath, his hands clasping behind his back and his frame standing taller. “I wrote to contacts of mine in London and asked if there were any accounts, good or otherwise of Hardyng.”

“And? What did you find?”

Tucked into his waistcoat, Jon had kept a folded letter. He retrieved that now and neared her with an outstretched hand. Sasna eyed the offered letter, a horrid, horrid gnawing feeling in her tummy as she looked at the paper. “What does it say?” she asked warily.

Jon sighed. “It is not good.”

“It could be lies,” her mother offered. “Sometimes young girls form fancies over handsome men and their imaginations run away with them.”

Jon glared at mama. “This is a good deal more than the daydreams of a young girl, Aunt Catelyn.”

“What is in the letter, Jon?”

Turning to her, Sansa saw the resolute set to his jaw. “It says –“ he swallows, as if wanting to keep the information within. “There is rumour of Mr Hardyng fathering a child.”

Everything was deafeningly quiet for three rather drawn out seconds, and then her pounding heart thump-thumped altogether far too loudly in her ears. “What?”

“A serving girl-... he-... they were intimate and she fell with child, having the babe out of wedlock.” Jon took a breath before finishing. “Harry neither acknowledges nor finances the child.”

Something within her snapped only to be promptly knitted together again. “If Harry does not acknowledge the child then it is not true.”

Jon gave her that infernal pained look of his again. “ _Sansa_ ,” he pled. He can keep his pleading; Sansa _knew_ her dear Harry and her dear Harry would never do this.

“It is not true,” she repeated, taking a backward step.

“Sansa, I know you feel strongly for him but – “

_“I love him!”_

“You do not _know_ the man, not truly! _Look,”_ Jon urged, offering her the letter again, “read the report for yourse-”

She snatched the letter, turned towards the small fireplace and tossed the wretched lies into the fire. “I know his heart.”

Jon stared at her, a burning in his expression much alike the flame that hungrily devoured his poisoned report. There was a ticking in his jaw that fascinated Sansa somewhat. “Hardyng is not a man of honour,” he proclaimed. Sansa stood her ground.

“I will not condemn an innocent man thusly upon... upon... _rumour_ ,” she spat, gesturing to the fire. “When Harry proposes, I shall accept, and there shall be no more talk of this slander upon his good reputation!”

“ _He is not good enough for you, Sansa!”_

Her mother stood, attempting to interrupt. “Perhaps we should retire the subject to revisit-“

Jon had barely noticed her mother even being there. “You cannot marry him.”

Sansa snorted inelegantly. “You _forbid_ it?”

“Aye. Aye, I do. You cannot marry him, Sansa. Your father would turn in his very grave if he knew-“

She slapped him. The sting to her palm surprising her as much as her mother’s gasp. _“Sansa!”_

There was no satisfaction in seeing her cousin’s shocked expression. The silence was heavy before she broke it with a finger pointed in his direction and a sob at the back of her throat. “ _Don’t you dare speak of my father!”_ She swayed a little where she stood. “I’ll hear no more of this.” Sansa turned and made to leave, running from her mother’s sewing room, down the hall and straight back outside again. It was raining. Her dress would ruin but she did not care – the sky was weeping and she would weep with it.

***

Jon had inspired hatred in Sansa, that is for certain. He wished that she could only see that he offered her only good intentions and protection from her heart’s potential harm. He attempted to speak to her only once since Harry’s departure that the letter’s arrival; she claimed that his willingness to believe such lies spoke of corruption in his own heart and not of Hardyng’s misdeeds. She has avoided him since then.

“Did you really forbid her from marrying him?” Arya asked, seating herself rather unceremoniously on his bed while he was at his writing desk.

Jon dipped his goose feather quill into the ink and returned to his correspondence; his sister should like to visit and he would very much like to receive her. “Aye, I did,” he sighed. “Not that it did much good.” As her closest male relative, Jon could forbid any match for his cousin, but he rather thinks that Sansa would do as she wishes regardless when it came to her love for Hardyng.

Arya laughed, causing him to twist in his seat and face her. “If you wanted her to run away and elope with him, then you’ve acted perfectly.”

“No! Of course I don’t want her to elope! I don’t want her near the bloody scoundrel and I’ll darken his daylights if he should even think of such a thing!”

“Crikey,” said she, brows high on her forehead, “what did he do?”

“She has not told you?”

His cousin shook her head. “Mama will not speak of it and Sansa says you’re being deceived by lies.”

Jon felt his jaw tense, his breathing was heavy through his nose in a rather dracontine fashion. Something about his cousin Sansa made him feel very much the dragon, it seemed. “I am not one to gossip, Arya,” he told her. “But even if the contents of that letter were to be false, Hardyng is not good enough for your sister.”

Shrugging, Arya stood and made to leave, only turning before she completely disappeared. “Sansa wants to take a separate carriage to the bazaar.”

“A separate carriage?”

“She does not want to ride with you.”

Jon spluttered. “This is ridiculous. Absolutely not!” Arya only shrugged once more and left. Jon rose and went to his open door. “She’ll have to speak to me some time!” he called after his younger cousin.

“Tell Sansa that!” she yelled in return as she skipped down the hallway.

“I could if she would but acknowledge me!”

***

Outside of the carriage, the moors rolled on by, with its heathers and its grasses and crowberry. The sky was just as wide and yawning as the day he had arrived in Yorkshire, though now it was streaked with rust and marigold. They had been on the road for a while and still, his cousin refuses to lift her nose from her book.

Arya finds the whole affair endlessly amusing.

Jon wonders if Sansa will broach the dreaded subject with Hardyng at the bazaar this evening? Aunt Cat had commented that it would be unwise, since questioning it would give validity to the rumour and may offend the blackguard. Jon cares not for any offences the man might perceive, though he suspects any broach of the subject will be vehemently denied either way, so the exercise would be utterly fruitless.

Beneath his cousin’s coat she wears an exquisite dress of blue satin with white lace trim. Jon thinks to compliment her on it, as well as the feathers artfully arranged in her hair. But no doubt, his comments will be met with a curt thanks at most.

Once arrived, Jon saw that the halls hired for Tyrell’s charity bazaar were spacious indeed, bedecked with offerings of all sorts for purchase and dotted with huge vases sporting arrangements of golden roses and tall spikes of blue and white delphiniums.

“I am to find Harry,” Sansa commented, flipping open her fan and drifting away, her form getting swallowed by the crowd.

Jon turned to Arya. “I’ll watch after her,” said she, rolling her eyes and following after her sister. Jon was glad of it.

He wandered to an adjoining room, bobbing and weaving amongst the throng of people and swiftly taking up an offered drink. Sansa was not in this room. He berates himself for checking in the first place. In front of him lay an array of ladies necklaces, jewels of almost every colour. Approaching the display, Jon reaches out to finger a choker of sapphires, the deepest of blues winking at him in their table-cut stones.

“A beautiful piece,” came a voice. Jon pulled his hand away and looked to see Miss Tyrell appear at his side. She smiled at him. “Thinking of making a purchase, Mr Targaryen?”

“Miss Tyrell,” he bowed in greeting. She curtsied and fluttered her fan. “I’m afraid I have not the taste to make an informed purchase when it comes to jewels. I am quite hopeless.”

She chuckled prettily, though there was falseness at its very centre. She was, after all, a creature on display. No doubt, her father had instructed her to bewitch him so that the match may become solidified.

Jon felt his own smile falter. He was not one for the display – the great game of forced courtship. Much rather he would prefer to have his cousin strike him across the face again and again. At least it had been real. At least it had stirred something within him.

Miss Margaery Tyrell was more than easy to look at, for sure, but she inspired very little within Jon. Perhaps, should this union come to pass, that may change. Perhaps emotions stalwart and passionate both, might flower within them, nourished and nurtured by time and growing intimacy.

It is a pleasant picture.

“I will give you a tip, Mr Targaryen,” said she, brown eyes glittering. “The art of purchasing jewels hinges on one imperative measure.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. The bigger the jewel, the more likely she’ll forgive you.”

Jon’s brow furrows as his mind sees only a certain shade of auburn. “Who?”

One pale shoulder rises and a smirk plays across her lips. “Whomever you buy the trinkets for, Mr Targaryen. That is why men buy jewels and such, is it not? By way of apology?”

She is jesting, finding her way with him and hoping they’ll fall in step. “Well then,” he said, shifting on his feet, “I endeavour to upset the women in my life as little as possible, for the health of my pocket.”

Her smile quirked. “ _Women_ , Mr Targaryen? You make it sound as though you have a whole flock on hand.”

“My aunt and my cousins, of course.”

“Of course.”

He watched her, the way her good humour dimmed ever so slightly like the momentary flickering of a candle, only to be resumed again, bright and dazzling.

“You are so good to allow them to stay at Winterfell.”

Ah. This... this may be an issue.

“Winterfell is their home,” he said with absolute resolve. “It has been the Stark’s home long before it became mine and will be their home for as long as it stands.”

Miss Tyrell’s smile was tight. “Quite,” said she.

Jon wonders if that would be the last of it. If Miss Tyrell will likely cause upset with his aunt and his cousins then this match cannot possibly work. He would rather wed a plain maid that enhanced Winterfell with her companionship than a beautiful one that offends the balance of the house.

Together, they wander to the next display of wares; an array of gloves, some for ladies, fingerless and made of fine lace, others of moleskin and lamb. From the corner of his sight, Jon sees a flash of auburn and he knows without looking who it is that has entered the room.

He tries to keep his attention with Miss Tyrell, tries not to allow his eyes to glance over to where his cousins are. Thankfully, Hardyng is not within sight. Curiously, Mr Waters is engaged in some most animated conversation that resulted in both his cousins laughing heartily.

“My new nephew is very taken with your cousin, Mr Targaryen,” Renly Baratheon says, joining them, along with Miss Tyrell’s brother.

Jon took a sip of his brandy. “Does he?”

Illegitimate son he may be, but perhaps better for Sansa than the cad she currently has her sights on. Still, Jon’s stomach feels like an uneasy pit. Shall he have to investigate Mr Water’s past as well? Sansa would not thank him for it. Would that _any_ gentleman deserved her and her smiles.

Loras Tyrell remarked upon the success of his charity bazaar and Baratheon began singing the praises of the curation of items. Soon Jon was being given advice on which rooms to visit and what items were likely to be snapped up. All things that Jon, quite frankly had no care for.

All while engaged in his conversations, Jon felt the sensation of being watched. He could feel the caress of someone’s eyes on him. When he glanced in her direction, he knew he would find her looking.

Their eyes meet across the room and Jon’s surprised that his cousin chooses to hold the glance. Baratheon and the Tyrell’s are still talking around him but he pays them no mind at all. He’s half a thought to leave this little circle of acquaintances and stride over to her. And then, as if reading his intentions without so much as a repositioning of his boots to signal as such, Sansa loops her hand through Water’s arm and pulls him from the room, Arya quickly following.

Deciding that he will double his efforts to get Sansa to speak to him on their carriage ride home, Jon’s mind rejoins the conversation around him even though his heart wishes he would follow after her.

***

She hadn’t noticed that they’d wandered into the same room as him, too involved in conversing with Mr Waters. Arya has taken a liking to him, and he her, Sansa can tell.

She can feel the weight of her cousin’s stare without even turning to see him. She hasn’t meant to stop speaking to him entirely – she doesn’t hate him – she just... he will bring up the topic of Harry and that awful letter of lies and it is too much for Sansa to think about right this moment. Maybe – maybe when she and Harry are wed, she can ask him how this terrible rumour came about. Sansa’s sure he must’ve been kind to a serving girl and she thought herself in love with him and so proclaimed him father to her child.

That must be it.

Arya had not wanted to follow her into the small room set out for ladies only. Her sister said that she had enough undergarments and had no desire to fawn over prettily embroidered stockings. Well, Sansa had wanted to fawn – so fawn she will. Her hand was just gliding over some hose with blue ribbons embroidered with daisies when a man’s voice came close to her ear from behind.

“Very pretty.”

Sansa gasped and whirled around. It was Harry with his smile and that twinkle in his eye. “Harry!” Sansa exclaimed breathlessly.

Reaching past her, Harry picked up the stockings. “I would very much like to see you in these, Miss Stark.”

Sansa coloured and looked around to see the room empty except for them. Thank heavens. “Harry, you’re not meant to be in here.”

He laid the hosiery down. “I am meant to be wherever you are. Besides, your cousin is being given a tour by our hosts and by the expression on his face he is not pleased to see me again.” He moved to the door, pushing it closed and turning the lock with a click. Sansa’s heart thumps in her chest. Half of her was thrilled, half scared. Either way, this was too far from propriety to make her comfortable.

“Jon?” she asks, distracting herself, “he could come looking for me so we should-“

“Oh, he’s being thoroughly entertained by Miss Tyrell, I assure you.” Why did she remain un-assured? In fact, did the thought of Jon being distracted by Miss Tyrell fill her with awful unease? “Besides, he’s not allowed in here, remember?” said Harry with a waggle of his eyebrows.

“Neither are you.”

“You don’t mind, do you, my lady?”

He neared her and reached up, holding her face in his too hot hands. Sansa felt quite swept away with it and she was resolved to put Jon and Miss Tyrell to the back of her mind. “No,” she whispered before his lips met with hers.

***

It was quite simply amazing how the Tyrell siblings could show him all manner of things, dressed up and displayed in what seemed like an endless amount of rooms and still he was unable to stop looking for his cousin. Jon managed a glimpse of Arya at one point, who was stood with Mr Waters. At another, his view landed upon Hardyng himself who was blessedly _without_ Sansa by his side. He hopes the scoundrel is on his way out and fixes him with a scowl.

They were currently in a room full of curiosities to entice the curio collectors. Jon was drawn to a giant egg displayed in the centre table; a real ostrich egg, according to the little information card. It had been hollowed and gilded with gold.

Jon walked, taking in the wares, beside him he could feel Miss Tyrell had taken upon herself to stay by his side. He was grateful that she was not trying him for some flirtatious conversation just now as his head was not with him. Just then, a servingman approached Mr Tyrell and Mr Baratheon, whispering something urgent.

“Everything well?” Jon asked, coming around on his circuit of the room to join them.

“Yes, yes,” Loras Tyrell answered, his hand sifting through his hair. “Just a minor accident in one of the rooms.” He flashed a smile that could not have convinced Jon of its earnestness. “All is well. Excuse me.” He bowed and, along with his companion Mr Baratheon hurried off to see to the mysterious accident.

“You look worried, Mr Targaryen,” Margaery Tyrell commented before looping her hand through his unoffered arm. “Come, I’m sure my brother can handle this little catastrophe. What ever it may be.” She began to heard him away.

“Actually,” he said, halting her moving of him. “Some time has passed since I’ve laid eyes upon my cousins and I really should-“

“Sweet Arya is in the grand room with young Mr Waters, and the other is here somewhere.”

Jon pressed his lips together lest he raise his voice at the lady. “I really would prefer to see Sansa for myself.”

“Of course, “she blinked up at him, urging him on again. Together they looked in each available room and the heavy stone in his gut began rolling around restlessly. “Perhaps she is outside,” Miss Tyrell offered. Jon nods his head. That may be likely. He has not seen sight of Hardyng either and it would be exactly like blackguard to seclude her somewhere in the shadows of the gardens. Jon broke into a fevered stride, leaving Miss Tyrell to follow behind.

***

Kissing Harry here, alone in this locked parlour was not akin to how it had been the precious few other times he’d sweetly pressed his lips to hers before. His tongue forcefully invaded her mouth and Sansa hadn’t a clue what to do with it. His hands too – his hands were in places that they shouldn’t be; too high up on her ribs that one tiny slip and he’d be cupping her breast. This was not right – this was what was reserved for couples in matrimony. She tried to keep up – keep in time with the swirling of his tongue but Sansa must admit, his passions were not stirring her. Maybe she was just too afraid that someone might discover them? Maybe she was just too aware that Harry was taking these liberties without an understanding between them both. Their mutual affections cannot be denied, but Harry is yet to ask her the golden question and-

His hand travels up and it’s all too much.

“I think we should join the rest of the guests,” Sansa says, breaking away, breathless. Her lips feel swollen and her nerves all jumbled.

“No, no, sweetling,” he croons, palm raising to his chest, “please forgive me, darling Sansa.” His smile was dazzling as he stroked the side of her cheek. “Your beauty inspires such passions in me, I quite forget myself.”

There was an echo of a flutter in her heart. Something – she did not know what – was whispering to her that she should not listen to Harry’s pretty words. She shook herself – shook off that whispering doubt and put a bright smile upon her face for him. “Maybe we could stay just a little while longer,” she conceded, much to his delight.” “No one will notice if we are just a few more moments.”

No sooner had his lips resumed their activities and his tongue invaded her mouth when a scream and a few shouts could be heard coming through the door. “What’s that?”

Harry looked to the door and then back again. “I’m sure it’s nothing, sweet-“

Another shriek and a crash from the other side of the door has him releasing his hold on her. Sansa pushes him away and hurries to the door. Reaching for the brass handle has her yelping in pain. Her palm felt as though the skin went impossibly tight in an instant and the pain – the pain was searing. “ _It’s hot! It’s hot!”_

 _“_ Hot?” Harry asks, stepping away from the door and looking at the light coming from beneath. The orange glow was flickering and instantly the danger they were in was clear.

Cradling her hand, Sansa desperately wanted to sooth it – to submerge the flesh under cool, clear water. Instead she was forced to watch as Harry tore down the fabric of the drapes and used it to shield his own hand from ending up like hers. He fumbled with the key, turning it both ways.

The thing would not yield.

“Let me try.”

Harry ignored her, instead opting to attempt a shouldering of the door, once, twice, thrice.

“Why don’t I try the key?”

“ _Hush, woman_.” He was sweating. People were running and shrieking from the other side of the door. He tried the key again to no avail, dropping the thing as smoke slowly crept in from under the door.

“Let me-“ she made to bend down, wrapping her good hand in her shawl.

“Out of the way, you _stupid_ whore!” the words had flown out of Harry’s mouth in a hiss but before she’d had time to properly comprehend them, he shoved her forcefully out of the way, knocking her down, her head coming to blows with the table that displayed all the pretty stockings. Her vision when hazy, smoke swirled around her as she laid there on the floor, staring up at Harry’s back as he frantically tried to open the door. “Harry,” she tried weakly, witnessing his success with a head full of fog. Her arm was outstretched to his disappearing form before the corners of her world became blacker and blacker.

Above, a candelabra lay on its side, knocked completely off its balance from when her head hit the table. A single flame licked greedily at the pretty stockings with the little daisies.

***

Jon held his lantern aloft, illuminating almost every dark corner of the gardens in turn and coming away more and more worried. What if she truly has run off with Hardyng? His heart constricts painfully. “Sansa!” he calls into the black of night, his breath swirling before him in the cold.

“My, but you are so keen to find her, sir,” Margaery Tyrell says once she’d hurried to catch him up, lantern of her own in hand. “Pray, what is it that has you worried so?”

Should he tell her? He does not want to set about further rumours and tarnish his cousin’s reputation. He settles for a half truth, and leaves the gaps for his companion to fill. “There is a gentleman here, another guest at your bazaar. I do not trust him with her.”

“Ah.”

Jon raised his lantern to illuminate her face. “Speak this to no one,” he urged, “I just need to find her.”

“Of course, of course.” The severity of the situation seemed to have been realised at last at least. Jon watched as Miss Tyrell pondered how to help. “The stables,” she offered. “We could try looking in on the stables. It is secluded and if anyone would be in a hurry to leave, that is where they might head.

Jon gave a firm nod. It is a sound idea. He should’ve thought of it himself.

They turn to the building, making to go to its rear, only to hear a scream and a shriek. Jon and Miss Tyrell looked to one another. All did not sound well.

By the time they reached the entrance of the building, the severity of the situation was clear. Smoke billowed from windows and guests at the bazaar were pouring from its doors. “Good heavens!” Miss Tyrell. “Loras!” she called, seeing her brother. The man was coated in sweat and filth. “How could that have happened?!”

Loras Tyrell began his account, though panting and still clearly in a state of panic. Jon had not the time for this. “Where are Sansa and Arya?” he demanded.

He shot off in the direction that Mr Tyrell waved, his heart in his throat and his hope in the hands of the gods.

Arya was fairly simple to find, stood with Mr Waters amongst the other guests, all watching in abject horror. Her hair was almost completely undone. She grabbed him with both hands, the relief at seeing him visible in her expression. “Where is Sansa?” he asked.

Arya shook her head. “I do not know.”

The heavy stone in his gut had been swallowed by a growing bramble, its thorns sharp and serrated. He felt suffocated. Had he ever known panic such as this? He left Arya, weaving through the crowd and asking every soul he found;

“Have you seen a young woman with red hair?”

“Have you seen a young woman with red hair?”

The fire brigade arrived, they began setting up their water engine machine and yelling orders for everyone to move away from the building. People had stopped coming out. From somewhere within, something crashes to the ground. _People have stopped coming out._ A man carries an injured woman in his arms – she has flaxen hair styled in tight ringlets and is coughing horribly.

_People have stopped coming out._

“Have you seen a young woman with red hair?” he asks yet another stranger, ready to bounce instantly to the next. Then he sees him.

_Hardyng._

Jon wastes not a single second in grabbing the man by his lapels. “ _Where is she?!”_

Hardyng looks stunned – as though he’d just fallen from a rearing horse. “I-“

“ _Where is she?!”_

“I do not know!” he yelled, pushing Jon away. “I have barely seen her!”

“Is she still in the building?!”

“Damn it all, Targaryen! I do not know!”

The glazing on a window pane shatters with an almighty bang and a blast of terrible heat. Everyone ducked down. Women screamed. The inferno within was busy consuming the building. Jon took a final glance around on the chance that he may have missed her face in the crowd. Some men were fetching buckets of water while the brigade pumped their machine.

Jon shed his tail coat and began striding toward the building, removing his cufflinks and pushing up the sleeves of his undershirt as he went. “You cannot go in there, sir,” a fire official stopped him, “the building will not hold.”

Jon glared at him, feeling more beast than man. “Get out of my way.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it this far, thanks for sticking with it! The final part is finished, but I want to reread a few scenes and tweak it a bit before posting. It will be posted very soon!
> 
> Encouraging comments are so very _very_ welcome and greatly received!


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